Make Me Happy
by Electrical-Socket
Summary: Doug's paintings inspire jealousy in his companion, something he's never had to deal with before. One-shot, Rattmann/Weighted Companion Cube, one-sided Rattmann/Chell implied.


_Doug._

The man hears the cube whisper his name, but pays it no notice. He is painting, and it needs all of his attention. He is painting her face, and he doesn't know what he would do if an errant sweep of his fingertips ruined the likeness, the shape of it. He fears that if he gets distracted, he might forget things. Forget, maybe, what her face looked like in sleep, or forget what she looked like at all. Carefully, he dips his long fingers into the second pot, the one full of red. He scoops up some orange, too, and he mixes it all in his palm with just a hint of white until he thinks he's made it perfect, and he daubs at her face to shade her cheekbones and her jaw and her eyelids. He's careful to avoid the charcoal lines of her hair and her eyes as he paints, and after a little more mixing of colours and gentle dabs at the rough wall he's done. Only with her face, but that's the most important part. Yes, he thinks, she looks right.

_Doug, stop that and listen to me._

He wipes his hand on his tattered lab coat, dips it deep into the pot of orange paint, ignoring the cube and its insistent whispering. His hand drags paint across the rough sandpapery surface of the wall, filling in between the smudged outline of her arms and body. It's easier, this part – he's by no means unfamiliar with the jumpsuit she wears. Douglas Rattmann has seen tens, maybe even hundreds of people wearing them. He's sported one of the damn things himself, just the once...unbidden and sudden, the smell of chemicals and canned beans and panic-sweat comes back to him, but he doesn't want those memories right now. The creases in his brow deepen in discontent. He pushes the thoughts down and away and continues to paint, and tries to focus on the good things. Hopeful things like how _she_ is alive. Yes. The tiniest hint of a smile tugs the corners of his whiskered mouth.

_Fine. I was going to talk to you nicely, and try to make sure neither of us got upset. But now I'm upset anyway, so I'm just going to say it. You care about her more than me, don't you? _

That catches his attention. Troubled by his friend's uncharacteristically sullen tone, he turns, wide-eyed, one hand still pressed to the wall. His companion cube, though it has chastised him for bad decisions and voiced its frustration with him in the past, has never said anything like this before. It's worrying.

"D-don't be ridiculous," he stammers, blinking rapidly. "You're my friend."

_You're lying. You don't care about me anymore. And after all the things I've done for you…_

The words sting. Of course he cares! Where would he be without his companion? He would be nowhere. He wouldn't even be alive. Hearing his dearest friend doubt him like this panics him and, distressed, he shakes his head wildly.

"No!" he whimpers. "Nononono, I do care, I do, I _do!_" Suddenly consumed by anguish, he drops to his knees and flings himself bodily over the cube, clutching it to him desperately. Its corner presses into his stomach uncomfortably, but he cares more for proving his devotion than he cares for comfort.

_What happened to __**us**__, Doug? _

Rattmann's paint-spattered hands leave orange smears on the smooth grey plastic as he strokes it, over and over, in quick anxious movements. "We are us," the man murmurs, shifting to press his face to the cube's cool surface, "Nothing's happened. I love you, I do, I really do." Rocking to and fro, heart pounding in his chest, he murmurs a stream of reassurances and promises to his friend; his voice cracks as he strains to hold back tears. The cube doesn't say a word, sitting mutely even until Doug's voice finally trails off into dry, quiet sobs. "Please," he implores, "Just believe me." Many horribly long, silent seconds tick by. Doug spends them thinking about how he's ruined everything without even trying, because he must have ruined everything, and how unbearable it will be to be alone. Finally, his friend speaks.

_I do. I'm sorry – I know I can't be the only person you care about._

The man's breath leaves him all at once in a harsh sob of relief – he hasn't ruined everything after all – and he rains down snuffly, tear-damp kisses on his dear companion. Eventually the tears subside, and for a while they sit without speaking, Doug still curled over the cube, head cradled in his arms.

_Can I ask something of you, Doug?_

"Anything."

_Make love to me._

Doug's eyes widen, and he makes a kind of quiet spluttering sound. He glances around. "Here?" Their intimacies had always been conducted in small and private spaces, places like the dens they claimed during their escape from the testing tracks. It feels too exposed here, out in the empty space, with the broken roof revealing the open sky.

_Nobody's here to see us. So what if there were? _

That's a thought Doug's not sure he wants to entertain. He gets no thrill from the idea of getting caught, he never has. However, he's sure the cube is right; this place is abandoned, there's nothing to fear. And, he thinks, he so sincerely wants to make his friend happy.

Tenderly, Rattmann runs his hands over the plastic, paint-stained fingers dipping into each indentation as he finds them. The cube sighs. It's a contented sound, and hearing it brings Doug a little more contentment of his own. He curls over to plant a lingering kiss on the pale pink heart upon the cube's top, savouring the cool smoothness under his lips. Suddenly, it's so very easy for him to forget the unpleasantness of minutes before and surrender himself to the simple pleasure of closeness.

He lavishes love upon his friend with kisses and caresses, drinking in the soft murmurs the cube utters as he does. It whispers words to him, telling him how kind and how dear he is, how sorry it is for saying the things it said. Doug hushes it – he needs no apologies.

The touches grow more heated now, the cube's whispers more passionate than tender. He feels himself grow hard, pressed against the solidity of his companion's side and he shifts, seeking the gentle friction. Thin hands grip the cube's sides as skinny hips are brought to the solid plane of his companion's side and he moves, his breaths deep and slow as he relaxes into the warm familiarity of their peculiar lovemaking.

_You make me so happy, Doug._

Soon it's not enough; their languid pace quickens and he's craving more than this clothed and gentle affair. He reaches a hand between them to undo the buttons of his trousers with fumbling hands to free himself.

_Yes, oh, please yes…but ah, be careful of the paint. _

Hastily, he wipes his hands on the sides of his coat, leaving rusty streaks on the white cotton. Fingers still stained but bearably clean, he reaches down, touches himself because his friend cannot. The first stroke brings a soft groan from his lips, and the cube murmurs appreciation in return, streams of sighs and gasps of his name.

_Ah – you wonderful, beautiful man, oh,_

His thin fingers clutch harder at the cube's side as he nears his peak. Waves of sensation, the electric feelings of being so close to the edge, wash over him. Bright sunlight glows pink through his closed lids as his head falls back, mouth open to pull in ragged breaths.

_Doug, oh Doug, yes, don't stop, _

The image of _her_ face in sleep flashes unbidden into his mind, (beautiful, thick dark lashes against milky-coffee skin, slumber softening away the stubborn set of her jaw) and he can't help it but he just doesn't have time to shake the thought away.

_I love you I love you Doug Doug Doug yes,_

By then he's already lost with no hope of return, hips bucking wildly against his hand, his mind for a few moments blissfully empty with release. But then it's all over and awful gnawing guilt floods though his spent body, filling the spaces where quiet contentment should have been.

Doug lies slumped over the cube, wondering how things could have gone so wrong. The silence is pressing in on him so hard he fears it might crush him, so he breaks it with the only thing he can think of to make things right.

"I love you, so very much. So much."

_You too._

It doesn't fix anything, and he feels that he might as well not lie here and let the hard, unyielding silence return. He lifts his shame-heavy eyes from the floor and what he sees near stops his heart.

The orange paint has run. Doug looks at it, watches it bleeding down the wall, and hot tears well up in his eyes. He wanted it to be perfect, and now it isn't. She'll hate him if she ever sees this; he's ruined her. It's entirely unforgivable. He springs to his feet, enraged and distraught and betrayed.

_What's wrong?_

"Look what you did!" He screams, and kicks the cube viciously, then curses as the pain flares up sharply in his toes. The man crumples to the floor and hugs his throbbing foot, rocking back and forth, and he hopes he's not broken it. He knows it'd be his fault if it is broken, anyway. His fault for being so unkind. The cube is his _friend. _

_There, there. It's not that bad, you didn't hurt me. I think your picture looks nice. _

Doug shakes his head, inconsolable and sobbing 'sorry, sorry, sorry', too busy in his own private world where surely nothing will be right now that _she _isn't right. His pulse echoes dully in his bruised toes and he focusses on it until it fades along with the sharpness of his thoughts.

Practicality seems a good distraction. They're both a mess of paint and sweat and sex and tears – that needs fixing.

"Let's…let's get tidy. I'm sorry, I love you, I'm sorry."

_I love you too, Doug. Stop worrying._

He says it over and over like a mantra – I love you, I'm sorry, so sorry – as he makes them both presentable again, as he carries his friend to a pool of rain-water and bathes its sides and his hands until the only remains of what occurred are the rusty smudges on the hem of his coat. Gradually he becomes quiet, calmed, the shame and sorrow cleansed away for now like the stains from his hands. He returns to the painting and looks it over.

There's a palm-shaped smear at her elbow from when he first turned his attention from his work. The paint runs down from it, careless, and bright hope illuminates the man's crumpled face because just maybe it can be rescued. He dips his fingers into the paint pot, not caring that he washed them minutes ago, trickles bright colour onto the wall, and he sets out to save her.


End file.
